


I Need a Doctor

by afaithfulwriter890



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drama & Romance, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Murder Mystery, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2226357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afaithfulwriter890/pseuds/afaithfulwriter890
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has finally emerged from hiding, and is on the case. While investigating a series of carefully executed murders, Sherlock teams up with his former partner in crime, John Watson. As much as Sherlock wishes things could be as they used to, he knows that much has changed. John has moved on, and is currently engaged to Mary Morstan, who isn't as perfect or as kind as she seems. Trying to cope with this new knowledge, Sherlock buries himself in the case. However, the closer he gets to finding the identity of the murderer, the detective is stunned by what he finds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            He stood in his flat with his hands in his pockets. He wore his coat and scarf, and looked prepared to venture out into the frigid London winter. From the position of the sun, he estimated that it was approximately noon. He had hoped that while the sun was at its highest point, the world would be warmer. It was a foolish ambition.

            If he delayed any longer, it could potentially prove to be disastrous, yet he wasn’t quite ready to leave. This seemed to be one of the very few, very rare moments that Sherlock Holmes felt unprepared. He feared that more meditation was in order, or that he should wait a few more hours—maybe even days. The man shook his head at himself as his lips twitched upwards in the beginnings of a weak smile. He knew better than to even entertain the notion of waiting. He had waited long enough; too long, in fact.

            His hands, still in his pockets, were now clenched into fists, as he left his post at the window. Upon exiting his flat, he heard the shuffling of Mrs. Hudson downstairs in her kitchen. She was a kind old lady that meant well, but she occasionally got on Sherlock’s nerves. There was just something about her mannerisms, and her… less than intelligent tendencies that just seemed to make him tick. But, truthfully, none of that mattered. Mrs. Hudson was always there—always looking out for, and after him—and it was because of that fact that he was more than willing to put up with her. Plus, he had put her, and most of his companions through enough in the past few months.

            He descended the stairs and glanced into the kitchen. He saw the older woman standing in front of the sink. She held a plate in her hand, and was washing it absentmindedly, humming a tune. Sherlock shook his head. He knew that most people enjoyed to sing, or hum under their breath, but he saw no point in it. What was the purpose? To make them feel better? More often than not, it made others—himself particularly—annoyed by their tone-deafness. Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him and pushed open the front door.

            The cold, winter air slapped him in the face, and making his scarf billow behind his head. Sherlock braced himself, shivering slightly, and stepped out into the cold. There were few cars on the street, and even fewer people. He walked to the curb and flagged down a cab. As the cab pulled over, Sherlock slid into the back, adjusting his scarf as he did so. He quietly, seeming nervous and embarrassed at the same time, told the driver the address he needed to go to.

            Without another word, the driver took off, leaving Sherlock time to think. The private detective honestly had no idea what to say to the man he was going to meet. They had been through so much together, suffered so much together. Sherlock knew the man better than anyone, and the man knew Sherlock just as well. And yet, Sherlock still felt somewhat awkward around his one and only friend. Perhaps it was the fact that they had been apart for so long after Sherlock faked his suicide. Or maybe it was because of Mary—the one person that Sherlock knew would end up tearing them apart.

            Either way, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy around John Watson.

            The ride to John and Mary’s flat was entirely too short. By the time the driver had stopped and announced that they were at their destination, Sherlock had yet to plan out what he was even going to tell his dear friend. He got out of the cab, and watched as it sped off back into London traffic. The detective’s body felt oddly stiff and cold, and he knew it was not from the winter air. It was from something different – an emotion he usually forbade himself from feeling: fear. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to cast it out of his system, it remained, as if it had interwoven itself into his flesh.

            As he made his way up to the flat, his mind was oddly blank. It was an extremely rare occurrence for Sherlock Holmes’s mind to be unable to function, but it became increasingly common around a certain doctor. His normal wit was lost, and his ability to scrutinize every little detail – every flaw – was abandoned when he looked at John Watson. For, in reality, when he looked at John, he felt like a human. There was something about John that grounded him, and allowed him to actually _feel_ something. He always tried to block out his emotions – he considered them useless and potentially dangerous. But around John, he couldn’t help himself. Around John, they came in tidal waves – he couldn’t identify them singularly, but they all morphed together in a flood of heat that made Sherlock feel . . . good.

            Sherlock didn’t want to lose that feeling.

            He didn’t want to lose the one man that let him feel.

            He needed John Watson, probably more than that silly doctor would ever know.

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock had been back in London for about a week now. He had already met up with John once and told him the truth about where he had been, and what had happened. He met Mary – the beautiful woman who stole his best friend’s heart, and had learned to accept her. A part of him felt jealous of her hold on John – she could make him happy in ways that Sherlock never could. She was a woman. She could give him pleasure. The only thing Sherlock had brought him was heartbreak and agony. What kind of friend did that?

            Sherlock might not have been good at the whole “friend” thing, but he knew damn well that friends did not do what he did. _I had no choice,_ he tried to tell himself. He had to repeat that to himself often. _I did it to protect John. I did it to keep him safe._

            As he stood in front of the door to John’s flat, he took a deep breath and balled his right hand into a fist. He needed to make things right. He needed to work them out with John, or else . . . He didn’t know what would happen to him.

            Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open. There, standing on the verge of the threshold was a grim-faced, clean-shaved John Watson. The shorter man appraised his friend silently. Sherlock could see the pain in his eyes – he wondered how John felt seeing him alive again after so long. He wondered if John felt the same if John felt the same relief and gladness that he felt. He wondered if John’s heart fluttered when he laid eyes on him. He wondered if John had missed him too. He wondered if John needed him the same way he needed John.

            John took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock knew that his friend was trying to conceal his emotions. He looked tired – Sherlock deduced he hadn’t slept all night, and might have even been drinking although he smelt no alcohol on his breath. Finally, John opened his eyes and met Sherlock’s impassive gaze.

            “You’re here.”

            “I said I was coming,” Sherlock replied stiffly. A part of him wished he could show John his emotions. A part of him wished that he wasn’t so afraid to let him in. And yet there he stood, as cold and as stone-faced as ever. Why couldn’t he just tell John how he felt? Why was that so difficult? It was frustrating, and yet safe; at least this way he would not have to worry about John rejecting the way he felt.

            “You did,” John murmured. “So . . . You said you needed me for a case?”

            John’s mention of Sherlock’s _real_ reason for coming to his doorstep seemed to snap the detective back into his usual no-nonsense self. “Right,” he said. “Lestrade called this morning – they found a body dumped in an alley a couple blocks over . . . They said that they had no leads and wanted me to look into it. Since there is a corpse involved I figured that I’d need . . . Well, that I’d need a doctor to go with me.”

            “You know . . . I’ll admit, I have missed this,” John said suddenly, earning all of Sherlock’s attention. “I missed . . . working the cases.” It was as if the doctor quickly amended his statement. Was he trying to cover something up? Sherlock couldn’t be sure. “Shall we go?”

            Sherlock felt himself smile ever-so-slightly. “We shall.”


	2. Chapter 2

            “It’s bizarre,” Lestrade commented. The three – Lestrade, Sherlock, and John – stood in the middle of an alley between a gym and an apartment building. In the center of the alley was a corpse. Just by taking a brief look at the body, Sherlock could determine a fair amount of details about. The victim was approximately thirty-two, male, 6’2, 120 kilograms, and happily married judging by the rather worn wedding ring on his left hand. The cause of death was the bizarre part. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he would have said that this was your average, run-of-the-mill suicide – the man’s wrists were slit, and he was lying in a puddle of blood.

            However, the peculiar thing was: this man had never been in the gym next-door in his life. He had never been known to work out here. He had never shown any interest in the place. And now he was lying there as if he had just left the building via a side door that led into the alley. Even stranger: he lived on the other side of London! He didn’t work in this part of the city, nor did he come here for any reason . . . So why was his body here?

            Another odd thing Sherlock made note of: the cuts on his wrists. They were . . . very precise and clean . . . Almost as if someone had carefully, almost surgically cut them. If the man had done it himself, the cuts would be uneven, deeper in some places and shallower in others – messy. But these were so clean, as if a doctor had cut them.

            John had clearly noticed this as well. “The cuts are too clean,” he said immediately. “If they were self-inflicted . . . There’s no way . . . I mean, unless this man was a surgeon. Has the VIC been identified yet?”

            Lestrade shook his head. “I’ve got my boys working on it right now – scanning his face, asking around. All we know so far is that no one has seen him before – not the gym owners, not the regulars – no one in this part of the city.”

            “I could have told you that much,” Sherlock muttered. “It was clear from the beginning that he didn’t live in his part of the city. I also could have told you he wasn’t a gym regular. Look at him – he’s got a gut on him . . . Not very physically appealing to the eye. Was there a wallet, or any identification on his person?”

            “Negative,” Lestrade answered, running a hand through his graying locks. “The killer must’ve swiped it.”

            “Don’t see how that could be beneficial to the killer, though,” John murmured. Sherlock could almost hear the trepidation in his voice, as if he was afraid that his comment would invoke Sherlock to say something smart. Normally, he might’ve, but not today. He’d done enough damage to his dear doctor already.

            “Might be keeping it as a souvenir,” Sherlock offered with no sarcasm, and with no condescending tone. “Keep the man’s license as a trophy of sorts.”

            “Or,” Lestrade said, sounding almost exasperated. “It could be the obvious: the guy was looking to steal the credit cards, and all the money in the guy’s wallet. Call me crazy, but I think that’s a more likely explanation.”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes, but felt a small glimmer of affection for the detective. “Lestrade, have you learned nothing from working with me and chasing after criminal masterminds?”

            Lestrade produced a grim smile before giving Sherlock a friendly pat on the arm. Sherlock remained still, not used to any kind of physical contact. The only one that Sherlock ever really allowed to touch him was . . .

            Sherlock tried to avoid the doctor’s gaze as Lestrade headed toward the street. Sherlock followed dutifully, keeping his eyes lowered to the ground. Did John really have no idea how important he was?

            “So, we’ll call you if we have any leads,” Lestrade murmured. “We’re in the process of dusting the place for fingerprints—”

            “Don’t bother, you won’t find any,” Sherlock told him immediately. “Whoever this killer is, it’s clear that he took great care killing that man. He went through all the trouble to bring him here.”

            “Why a gym though?” John wondered aloud.

            “Maybe it was meant to be seen as ironic,” Sherlock offered with a small smirk. It was clear that the victim never worked out a day in his life. Maybe the killer was trying to make some kind of statement that only he and cynical people like him would find amusing. “I mean . . . a somewhat overweight fellow found dead next to a gym?”

            “Sherlock,” John said in that scolding “don’t-be-so-insensitive” tone.

            He had to admit: it was wonderful having John back at his side.

            “Well, if you two think of who this guy might be . . . or how we’re gonna find him—”

            “Doctors,” Sherlock said. “Look for doctors.”

            “Why?”

            Sherlock sighed. More often than not, Lestrade was a rather intelligent man . . . But sometimes, the things he missed or overlooked was just embarrassing. “It’s clear that the man who did this had some kind of surgical experience. We should be on a look out for someone of that nature.”

            “I’ll ask around,” John piped up. “I know a few of the doctors and surgeons here in London – I’ll talk to them; see what I can find out.”

            Sherlock again realized how useful it was to have John around. He would be able to speak to potential suspects without being suspicious himself. “Good idea, John,” he praised, perhaps stiffly. Sherlock knew that if he wanted to keep John at his side, he needed to show the doctor that he appreciated him. He needed to show John that he . . . cared.

            John almost beamed at that. He looked at his shoes, seeming almost sheepish. “Uh, thanks,” he murmured. Sherlock could hear the happiness in his voice, and felt his lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile. The things John Watson could do to him.

 

* * * * * *

 

            Sherlock walked John up to the flat he and Mary shared, intending to bid him farewell at the door, and then quietly and furtively head back to 221B and busy himself with an experiment . . . Or perhaps his violin. He hadn’t played it in ages, and he had to write a song for John and Mary for their wedding.

            _Their wedding._

            Sherlock still had a hard time wrapping his brain around that. Everything else came so easily too him – it was so easy for him to grasp and understand, but not this. This – this occasion, these feelings he harbored – he knew nothing about, and he was groping around in the dark like a damned fool.

            John led the way, climbing the stairs to his flat, and Sherlock followed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and feeling a little nervous. He hoped that they wouldn’t run into Mary again. Their last meeting was more than awkward. Mary seemed like a nice woman – someone that was perfect for John – but there was something about her that Sherlock just couldn’t put his finger on. She was so hard to read . . . so hard to see. It made him uneasy.

            When they reached the flat, John took out his key and opened the door. Stepping inside, he turned to face Sherlock. His eyes were oddly dull and almost remorseful. “See you tomorrow?”

            Sherlock cocked his head to the side slightly. They had nothing planned for tomorrow. They had nothing to do – the case was currently at a standstill until Lestrade and his traveling flea circus could identify the body. “For what, John?”

            John’s tongue darted out and moistened his lips. Sherlock tried too hard to ignore it. “I was just thinking that maybe we should go talk to Molly,” John offered. “See if she has any input on it . . . Or maybe ask her if she knows anyone that could potentially be the killer.”

            Talking to Molly wasn’t exactly high on Sherlock’s to-do list. He had yet to visit his former co-worker and wasn’t exactly eager to. He knew that Molly liked him in a way that he didn’t understand, or approve of. Sherlock had nothing against Molly – she could be a little naïve at times, and that’s putting it nicely – but she just wasn’t his type . . . And that wasn’t her fault . . . Sherlock just wasn’t . . . into that kind of thing.

            “I suppose it could be potentially beneficial,” Sherlock allowed, seeing the hopeful look on John’s face. I have to get back into his good graces, he thought determinedly. “After, maybe we could—”

            “John? Who are you—oh! Hello, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock nearly cringed when he heard Mary’s voice. He knew that she would invite him in for tea, or something of the like, but he wasn’t really interested. Sherlock also knew that if he refused Mary, or was too brusque with her, John would be offended.

            Could he ever win?

            “Hello, Mary,” he replied, a bit stiffly. He didn’t miss John’s disapproving look.

            “Would you like to come in?” she asked, coming to the door. Sherlock watched, a new, alien emotion flaring within him, as John snaked his arm around Mary’s waist.

            “No thank you,” Sherlock answered, trying his best to sound like he truly regretted it. “I should probably be getting home. I promised Mrs. Hudson I would play my violin for her this evening. She’s having a couple of old friends over, and she wanted me to provide the entertainment.”

            John studied Sherlock with uncertainty, but Mary seemed to accept that answer. “Oh, well some other time, then?”

            “I’d love to,” Sherlock lied through his teeth.

            Mary smiled and kissed John’s cheek. “Well, I’ll leave you two to whatever it was you were talking about,” she said.

            John smiled and kissed her forehead before letting her flitter off to wherever she’d come from.

            Sherlock was doing all he could to keep his lunch down.

            “So . . . a concert for Mrs. Hudson?” John asked with narrowed eyes.

            Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t ask. Anyway, tomorrow; Ten-ish?”

            After mulling over the time for a moment, he nodded. “Sounds good. Want me to meet you at your place?”

            Sherlock didn’t know how he would feel having John in his flat again after all this time . . . It would be bittersweet – that part was practically a given. Straightening up slightly, he did his best to hide whatever it was he was feeling inside. “Sure.”


End file.
